The Fate of a Nation
by Snoopy2
Summary: Kingship should be easy - gaining whatever you want with a simple glance. Paradise, right? :: Chapter 2 up / FIC COMPLETED!!!!!::
1. First of All...

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First of all, I would like to express my utter horror at the APALLING number of Mary-Sue fics in this category - there are more Mary-Sue's than fics about the actual people/books! This worries me. I confess that I am worried…  
  
I have therefore decided to put an end to this horrifying trend, by ANY means necessary… This could, of course, mean that I simply woo you into writing fics based on unperfect people (yes, unperfect…), using my superior writing skills…(yeah, right ;) ). Far more likely, however, I will scare you away from this category FOREVER!!!!! Mwahahaha!!!!!(I said ANY means…). That's right, ladies and gentlemen, bitchy writer 101 is here for your educational enjoyment! 

Soooooooo, enjoy?

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The Fate Of A Nation  
  
I enter a room, and what do I see?  
A long, sharp sword,  
and a little buzzy-bee.  
  
The sword is wide, and really quite tall,  
it hangs from the ceiling,  
against the front-wall.  
  
The bee, however, flies to my hand.  
Its head the size  
of a grain of sand.  
  
Its' size does not matter, as it lands on me.  
I think only of,  
this buzzy-bee.  
  
Dispite its mass, the sword holds no risk,  
Its' radiant size  
threatens not my wrist.   
  
Only the bee, small and frail,  
can make my heart  
shiver and quail.  
  
The lesson learnt for all to see,  
the fate of a nation  
may rest with a bee…  


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	2. The Sword...

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Title: The Fate of a Nation  
  
Author: Snoopy  
  
Rating: R (just in case!!!)  
  
Warning: Angst, Spoilers (Squire)  
  
Disclaimer: I, Snoopy, lecturer in psycho-bitch-writer 101, own nothing. Well, I own an old shoe, but it smells. And the poem in the previous, uh, thing. (Chapter? Authors note? [???]), but that stinks too, sooo, yeah… Please don't sue!  
  
Plot Notes: Set during SQUIRE.  
  
Archive: If u wanna, but could u let me know???  
  
Feedback: Flames, cherry bombs, whatever. All is welcome. ;)  
  
Authors Notes: This is a story. It involves people. Orlando Bloom is gorgeous. That's all I have to say… (Random anyone?)  
  
"…" = Speech  
  
'…' = Thoughts  
  
**The Sword**

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"… the army must move in! Now is the perfect time to stri-"  
"I said no." Jonathan of Conte's face was calm, his mouth relaxed. Only his vivid blue eyes spoke differently. Their cold, hard gaze bore into the furious man in front of him. Most quailed beneath that stare, and Glaisden of Haryse was not among the few who could defy it frequently. He whimpered, but tried one last time.  
"Highness, please, I beg you. If we move now…"  
"No." The Kings voice held a finality that the cowering commander could not deny. He excused himself from the royal presence and departed, his pace and stride radiating both fury and fear. Jonathan, however, simply sighed. Unsure of his decision to promote Haryse in the first place, it seemed that the fears he had been harbouring were on their way to being confirmed in a most unpleasant manner. "Hit first, ask questions later. Glaisden in a nutshell…" Brushing a stray hair from his eyes, Tortalls King adopted a regal pose, ready for his next appointment. Neal. Jonathans palms, beginning to resemble a noble-womans delicate hands as a result of seventeen years of riding chairs, were slicked with sweat. His resolve wavering, he adopted a rather un-kingly mantra… "Alanna's not going to kill me, Alanna's not going to kill me, Alanna's not going to kill me…" 'Yeah, right.' That was his brain-voice talking. The evil one. 'You're gonna try to convince her to take a squire, who also happens to be one of Keladry of Mindelans best friends, and she's not gonna kill you? Get real, Jon.' "Fuck."  
  
Jons' inner spiel was interrupted by a knock at the door. The pounding on the heavy oak caused his worry to escalate for reasons he could not fathom. 'I'm doomed…' The evil voice was back. Regardless, his mortal one gave the call to enter in an unquavering tone.  
  
'She's changed' he noted, 'since I saw her last.' The womans hair, red as flame, had once been cropped to her earlobes. It now flowed past her squared shoulders, freed from its usual constraints. Her mouth was set in a tight line, violet eyes bright with suppressed emotion. A single sheet of parchment was clutched in one of her small, seemingly delicate hands. Her hands were just like the rest of her - petite, apparently fragile, but wielding strength and power beyond comparison.  
  
She didn't speak, as he had expected her to. She just stood there, the epitome of regret - beautiful, yet unattainable, as she had been for so long now. 'I missed her.' The realisation hit Jonathan hard and fast. As a result, he voiced the first thing that came to mind, desperate to fill the heavy silence. "I'm sorry…"

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Nealan of Queenscove was torn, his usually green eyes appearing a dank, murky grey. 'She'll teach me healing! But…Kel's my best friend - I can't betray her like that. She IDOLISES Alanna. She'd be so hurt!' His fathers' words of encouragement fell on closed ears, as did the Kings.  
  
Alanna the Lioness, Champion of Tortall, stood to the side, knowing that the fretting boy needed to talk to his friend before contemplating his final reply. She was rather shocked herself. 'I've never needed a squire before, but Neals' healing will be sorely needed in the coming years - I must teach him all I can.' The womans' head bobbed slightly, her decision made. "Keladry is taken care of, Neal."  
"Huh?" Neals eyes left the floor, a position they'd been in since the start of their meeting.  
"She's taken care of, a knight is planning to ask her to perform as his squire." Alanna closed her eyes in silent, hopeful prayer. 'Please, Goddess, don't let Raoul change his mind!'  
"She- she is?" Hope-filled eyes - a bright, vivid jade - turned to her, pleading.  
Alannas' stare fell on the King. "Promise."

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Jon, the Scanrans look like they're going to get nasty. I'm sending more of my agents north to see if I can get any more info.  
I'll stay in touch  
Myles  
  
'Just what I need, another war.' Azure eyes closed briefly, allowing the man to collect himself, an act that became more and more arduous with every passing day. The tranquillity that had flooded his soul before his inauguration was slowly seeping away, to be replaced by the burning desire he had harboured in his youth. 'Much has changed', he reflected, 'since that day'. That day. It had always been, and continued to be, a constant source of guilt in the hollows and pits of his mind. 'So many things to be guilty about, so little time to do it in.' Images flashed through his mind, memories from both past and present. Alanna, Keladry, Thayet, Kalasin. He had betrayed them all '…for the good of Tortall.' Dispite bitter thoughts and harsh words, he had never broken, never allowed those who feared him to realise the truth. 'I'm only human…'  
  
As a deep sigh was all that eventuated from his current train of thought, Jonathan of Conte turned back to his papers. 'I will NOT get depressed! I am King! I have EVERYTHING! I'm a jerk! Oh, damn…'  
"Highness!"  
'Fuck.'  
"Highness! You are late for your meeting with…" The panting mans voice was a thin, annoying whine in Jonathans ears. The man seemed to feel a need to explain the intricacies of planning a kings timetable, and why it is a sound idea not to insult foreign ambassadors. "… and should he-"  
"I thank you, my good man. Please escort the ambassador in." Jonathan stood slowly as the serving-man hurried out. Straightening his tunic, King Jonathan of Tortall greeted his guests. "Ambassador, welcome."

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The noise was deafening. Sound pulverised his ears, reverberating around his skull in relentless, horrific echoes. Colours, constant pictures of the world of hierarchy, of the wealthy, flew past sapphire eyes. A world of finery. His world. It seemed to be an endless parade of nameless faces, and faceless names. And yet he stood, silent, proud, the embodiment of authority. A smile was plastered over his countenance, perfect white teeth glittered through a raven beard. An intricate golden coronet crowned his tresses - blacker than the night sky, straighter than an arrow. Perfect.  
  
The procession was as endless as the pain, its' mass enveloped his vision. Party after party, night after night, day after day. Through it all the longing grew. But he delt with it - the pain would never break him, never claim him, as it had claimed his father.  
  
Jonathans view was very simple. If he had to suffer, why shouldn't Raoul? Strongly worded reprimands kept Raoul, knight commander of the Kings Own, there with him. Why should he get to goo off and save the world? 'Because he's a knight, and you're a king. Kings stay on their thrones and look down their noses at people. Kings are indifferent. People must respect and fear the-' "me. They, they must fear me." The harsh whisper was heard by none. A single tear carved its' course down one flawless cheek, the world reflected in its' seamless form - part of it, and yet not real at all. A vision of a dream, a longing, a life.  
  
An impossibility.

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To Be Continued…


	3. The Bee.

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Title: The Fate of a Nation

Author: Snoopy

Rating: R (just in case!!!)

Warning: Angst, Spoilers (Squire)

Disclaimer: I, Snoopy, lecturer in psycho-bitch-writer 101, own nothing. Well, I own an old shoe, but it smells. And the poem in the previous, uh, thing. (Chapter? Authors note? [???]), but that stinks too, sooo, yeah… Please don't sue!

Plot Notes: Set during SQUIRE.

Archive: If u wanna, but could u let me know???

Feedback: Flames, cherry bombs, whatever. All is welcome. ;)

Authors Notes: This is a story. It involves people. Orlando Bloom is gorgeous. That's all I have to say… (Random anyone?)

"…" = Speech

'…' = Thoughts

****

The Bee

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Alanna of Pirates Swoop and Olau rode at the head of a long train of warriors. Beside her trotted her most resent acquisition, squire Nealan of Queenscove. Her squire. 'Fuck'. She knew that Jonathan hadn't meant to hurt her, to betray her all those years ago. Her brain told her to swallow her pride and forgive him, but other organs - namely a fist-sized red one - would not allow that course of action. 

Painful thoughts clouded both mind and vision. Absorbed as she was, Alanna didn't hear the arrow soaring through the sparse trees surrounding the company. Droning in an uncanny rendition of a bee, the missile soared true, finding its mark in Alanna's most troublesome organ. Purple eyes widened in shock as the woman tumbled from the stead beneath her. Darkened figures swam into view before black swamped her violet gaze. A fine trickle of red marked its course past pallid lips to pool beside the burning gem at her throat. In a last effort her hand dove into the pocked of her worn, dirt-encrusted breeches, and found an object inside. Trembling fingers clutched the ring tightly into her scarred palm, its design to be forever imprinted in her mortal flesh_._

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'Beloved Alanna...

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Hooves clattered on polished wood as the messenger rode forth to his king. A tightly sealed roll of parchment was tucked under his cloaks, the sodden material its only protection against the battering wind. Never in his life did the man expect to be delivering this message to this man. Never in his worst nightmares had he imagined a worse fate. 

Across stone floors his boots clattered, etching harsh sounds into the surrounding stillness. He did not falter. Shattered glass littered the floors of the palace, digging deep into the soles of his fragile boots. He did not falter. Cerulean eyes gazed into his.

Nealan of Queenscove faltered.

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…I will love you always…

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Black. A sea of obscurity - vast, sombre, still. The multitude expanded into every corner, every crevasse. At its fore - the sole colour in the dull lifelessness enveloping the vicinity - stood a Mithran Priest and a Priestess of the Goddess, their heads bowed in prayer.

A faint whimper sounded from the masses. Its source rested before a vast altar, glistening tears streaming down ashen cheeks. The body rested upon the slab itself. Dressed in the best finery in the land, the battered form was almost unrecognisable as the individual it had once been.

All that was left of that individual, that soul, was a hasty letter. It read -

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My dearest friends,

Please forgive me for any grief imposed apon your fine selves as a result of my recent actions. I in no way intended to cause you distress. I love you all and pray that you never feel the agony of this state.

You see, I was told in my youth that the greatest danger to a person of my - status - was love. I find that comment to be correct.

I'm sorry.

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"I can't believe he did it…"

"Thayet." Raoul moved to catch the collapsing Queen. Her grief-stricken countenance was streaked with filth, raven hair a jumble of knots. 

"I knew he loved her, but…"

Raoul held the stricken woman close. "I know, sweetheart. I know."

"No!" The Queen tore herself from the man's grasp. "You don't know! You could NEVER KNOW!!!" Sobbing, Thayet sank to the floor "He- he promised he would never do that." The woman's voice was barely audible. "He promised he wouldn't leave me like his father left him…"

"He promised he would be strong."

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… Jon…'

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The End.


End file.
